


Night Watch

by spiderine



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Fetish, Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-02
Updated: 2009-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderine/pseuds/spiderine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no secrets here.  Or are there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Ask!verse universe on LiveJournal
> 
> This fic is dedicated to all the amazing writers and characters of the Ask!verse, especially ask_captainjack, without whom none of it would have existed, and oh_doask (a.k.a. cruentum), my HARTHA partner in crime. Beta'd by the one, the only, the lovely and talented copperbadge/ask_aboutcoffee .

This is what Torchwood does to people.

Martha Jones didn't used to do this.  She wouldn't even have thought of doing this back in London.  But instead of London, she's buried so deep in an underground bunker in Cardiff that if a bomb exploded on the Plass she'd only know by the alarm sounding off.

Down here, anything can happen. 

It's late, Gwen's gone, the lights are low and the Hub is quiet. She hears dim echoes of moans and murmurs booming up from Jack's quarters, but she's used to that by now. She leans over her microscope and slides a bit forward on the edge of the chair.  Her skirt rides up slightly. From under the desk there's a rustle of movement, and she feels the light touch of fingers glide over the sharp heel of her shoe and tease up her ankle.

The stockings are silk.  Stronger than nylon, so they don't get torn chasing aliens, of course.

She slips a bit further forward in her chair.  The skirt's tight, so without taking her eye from the microscope, she wriggles it a little higher as she opens her knees, just a tiny bit. The man under the desk edges closer and runs his hands up her legs, brushing the inside of her thighs. He slips one finger under the top of her stocking where it meets the suspender hook, and strokes beneath the elastic ribbon.  She lets the hands nudge her thighs wider.

There are closed-circuit television cameras everywhere.  Torchwood is everywhere. 

Jack's had them all chipped with tiny tracking devices.  Martha could go the length of England and her exact location would show up as a red dot on a screen in the Hub. John Hart already cut his out once and Jack made her put a new one in him, in that part of the back nobody can reach on themselves.

John's asked her to cut it out again.  She's considering it.

John is between her legs.  He nuzzles against her inner thigh and slips a hand up until he finds where her silk knickers are damp.  He presses in two fingers, bunching fabric into her slit, and rubs slowly.  Martha feels his hair brush her thigh as he turns his head to watch midnight blue silk turn black and wet under his fingers.  Her hips jerk forward and she moans through closed lips.  She pushes aside the microscope and clutches the edge of her desk, head hanging down.

Under the desk John laughs.  He pushes her thighs wide open and his laugh becomes muffled as he tongues the wet crotch of her pants.

A year ago, Martha would not have done this.  She does not consider herself a prude, but she does believe that one's private life should be kept private.  She still does.  But here in the Hub where all the secrets are kept, nothing is private.  Nothing.

They have her DNA and stem cells on file.  They've brought people back from the dead before.

John is tugging at the wet crotch of her pants with his teeth, sucking her juice. He rubs his face into her slit and licks his lips.  She can feel his chin stubble against the slickness, bristling over the rough dark hair of her mound.

Jack's idea of privacy is to pull the curtain over the glass wall of his office when Ianto comes in.  They don't turn off the light, so Martha has seen more than one remarkable shadow show since she's worked here.  Gwen passes around popcorn, and once threw a few pieces at the window wall when she got bored. 

Every Christmas (barring apocalypse), Ianto presents a "highlights" reel of the year's best CCTV footage.

Martha knows the sound Jack makes when he comes, and how Ianto looks just after.  She knows that Rhys thoroughly approves of the "pole dancing exercise" class Gwen took, and she's seen all the sex alien footage.

Martha knows John likes spending time under her desk.  She finds she likes having him there. She finds it more than a little thrilling to have someone eat from her fingers, crawl on his hands and knees, lick her heels and suck at her ankles through thin, sheer silk.

Stiletto heels are impractical, but she can change to boots if she needs to go out in the field.  Boots, she finds, also have their advantages.

Martha has heard John brag about destroying cities and threaten to destroy planets.  He told her that when the time came, she was going to die screaming like everyone else.  She told him she'd shoot him in the head first.

He slides the blunt back of one of his thin, sharp knives across her pussy and yanks up the crotch of her pants on the blade, ripping through the wet silk before she could have stopped him. 

She doesn't stop him.  She falls back into her chair and hikes her legs up.  Her linen skirt is wrinkled up past her hips and the little French pants she paid 50 quid for are dangling by their tiny ribbon waistband until John snaps that as well and the scrap of deep blue silk flutters to the cement floor.  John laughs again, grabs the arms of the chair and pounces forward; the chair rolls back out from under the desk and there she is with her legs hoisted over John's shoulders and her sharp heels digging into John's back as he groans, face first in her pussy with a low vibrating rush of air that makes Martha shiver.  She grabs his hair and grinds against him while he sucks her clit with slobbery abandon.  Then he shoves three fingers at once deep into her swollen slit -- once, twice, he bends his fingers --  and she flings her head back.  She comes with a low, rough open-throated caw, squirming on his tongue and pulling at his hair. 

The cameras see everything.  If it's Torchwood, it's ours.

Grinning, John wipes his mouth on his sleeve.  He stands, shrugs out of his jacket, turns the point of his knife against himself and rips his t-shirt from neck to hem, then shrugs out of that too. He unbuckles his belts, letting one after the other fall to the floor in a chorus of clanking and rattling.  She watches, and he watches her, his smile cocky and wicked.  Slowly, she smiles in return.  She licks her lips and draws up one leg to hook over the arm of her chair -- the long stretch of stiletto pump and shimmering stocking opening wide to show him what he's done to her, how wet and swollen and flushed dark red she is.  He stands looking, just looking, as if he's forgotten he wants to do anything more and he could stand here happily all night long looking at her just like this.

John can be surprisingly gentle.  He has never forced her to do anything.  The first time she let him touch her breasts he barely brushed her nipples with his fingers, and the look of focused wonder on his face is one she knows she'll remember for the rest of her life.  She remembers it as she slips the fingers of one hand between her breasts and thumbs open a button of her blouse, then another. The creamy fabric slides over her dark skin, down a shoulder, revealing the midnight blue lace of her bra.

John sucks in a sharp breath and starts to fumble at his trousers.  She giggles as he peels them down to his ankles, and laughs aloud when he rummages in a pocket to find and hold up a condom, grinning as proudly as a boy. She stops him from tearing it open with his teeth with a whispered, "Come here, honey," and he stumbles toward her with his trousers around his ankles.  He's wearing that awestruck look again. 

Quickly, quickly she rolls the condom on him. She's already so wet that he slides inside with a long, slow thrust.  A shudder rolls through her that comes out of her mouth as a moan.  She looks up at John; he's breathing heavily and she can see the whites all around his eyes as leans over her and kisses her.

Yes, they kiss.  Martha suspects her teammates find that even more disturbing than the fucking.

They kiss tenderly, soft lips and tongue.  They kiss with their eyes open. 

He likes to bring her dead aliens.  She likes to cut them up.

He snaps his hips forward and she bucks up to meet him, another moan cut off as she sucks on his tongue.  She grabs the back of his hair and his neck, and wraps her legs around his waist.  She digs her heels into his waist, drags them up and down his sides as he shoves into her with long, deep strokes. The skin on his back and sides is scored with the scars of her heels.  He likes that; it makes him laugh and pant and growl.  She finds that she likes it too.  He likes it when he catches her looking at him during the day.  He poses for her, stretching, to show the long red lines as his shirt rides up.  She likes to look.

Jack has never met a personal boundary that he hasn't crossed.  He's told her how it feels to have sex with tentacles.  (Just tentacles, a writhing mass of tentacles.) He jokes with Gwen about Rhys and padded handcuffs.  He reduces Ianto to a gasping blush with one fingernail grazing along his neck above his collar.  He and John goad each other constantly with boasts about their various exploits, both separately and together.  Martha knows that Gwen's toes curl when she comes and that Jack has been gagged with Ianto's shorts.

Her teammates also see the long red lines on John's skin.  They see John look at Martha like she's something he'd like to set on fire.  They see her look at him, and they quickly look away.

Martha finds she likes that very much.

John draws away from kissing her with a wet suck of air.  He looks up over her head at something and laughs at it, sticking out his tongue in a long obscene wiggle.  Then he grabs Martha's hips and fucks hard into her until she cries out, head back, eyes closed.

Jack must be behind her.  He must have come up from his hole when he heard them making noise, as if he didn't know exactly what was going on.  This isn't the first time he's "investigated strange noises."  Jack says he hates the idea of Martha being with John, but when he finds them like this, he doesn't turn away and go back downstairs.  She doesn't have to open her eyes to know that Ianto will be along in a minute to lead Jack away.  She feels John's hand rest on her belly, his thumb hard on her pubis right at the root of her clit.  She rolls her hips up against it and down against the deep drive of his cock and has just enough time for the merest flashing thought -- _Jack Harkness, you made this_ \-- before orgasm takes her like a car crash.

John bends over her, pumping hard, sweat from his forehead dripping between her breasts, eyes squeezed shut.  Blindly, he nuzzles for her breast, tonguing aside the lace and satin to suck in her nipple.  He grunts and whines, half-words muffled against her flesh.  When he comes, shuddering, almost crying, she cradles him against her, smoothing his hair and kissing him softly.

He rests against her heartbeat.  Sometimes he whispers, "Mommy."

She doesn't stop him.

The showers are communal.  The cameras are everywhere.  They live in each other's pockets, and die in each other's arms. 

There are no secrets here, except when there are.  Torchwood is built on secrets.


End file.
